


The Palace Walls

by Cosmo_Donatien



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_Donatien/pseuds/Cosmo_Donatien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their first meeting Hannibal Lecter recognised something in Abigail Hobbs; a certain darkness, familiar to him alone, and she – this vital young thing – had piqued his curiosity. So it was that the Doctor added a room in his Memory Palace, built to house the intriguing Abigail Hobbs and all that she brought with her to his table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foundations

**Author's Note:**

> Being in the UK, at the time of writing this we’ve only just had “Coquilles”. I’ve had a peek at “Trou Normand” - purely for the Hannigail - but haven’t really gone into great detail with it. So this fic can be considered a total AU after chapter 1 as I’ve just let myself run with it outside of time. I may make an attempt to tie it back into the timeline of the series, but it’s not looking likely – mainly I’m just playing with Hannibal & Abigail and seeing what happens, (although you all know exactly where it's going to lead). Rating & warnings will be subject to change as this story develops.

On their first meeting Hannibal Lecter recognised something in Abigail Hobbs; a certain darkness, familiar to him alone, and she – this vital young thing – had piqued his curiosity. There was, in his opinion, far more to Abigail Hobbs than first met the eye; he could see how well-trained she was, with her doe-eyes and well-practiced stricken expression she could convince almost anybody that she was innocent of all wrongdoing. So it was that the Doctor added a room in his Memory Palace, built to house the intriguing Abigail Hobbs and all that she brought with her to his table.

Despite the likeness he saw in Abigail, she remained somewhat of an oddity to him; she was shy yet she met his eyes directly whenever they spoke and, although he could tell she was intimidated by him initially, she seemed more comfortable around him than she was with Will Graham or Alana Bloom. Her unease with his colleagues was understandable; Will fought an identity crisis with every new case and shied from his paternal feelings for the young woman, and while Abigail was officially Alana Bloom's patient the young doctor seemed to be keeping tabs on Will more than anything else. Still, the quiet confidence she exuded when speaking with him alarmed him somewhat and left him wondering if she too had recognised his darkness; he left this question in his neat copperplate script on a page of the open journal on the desk of her room in his Memory Palace. He hoped to return with an answer sooner rather than later.

When she had gutted the boy – Nicholas Boyle – his hypothesis of her was confirmed, and he reflected later that it was unfortunate that Doctor Bloom had been there as he would have taken more time with Abigail to appreciate exactly what was going on in that head of hers. He had told her he would help her hide Boyle's body, and in doing so he had observed the moonlight gleaming in her eyes as her senses, heightened by adrenaline, picked up on the stimuli of the forest; the cool breeze on her skin, the damp smell of the freshly-dug earth, the stars winking brightly through the canopy of trees – and he noted that although her eyes brimmed with tears they were not tears of sadness or of self-pity, rather of a barely-contained twisted joy. He considered finding the answer to his question then and there, but silently chastised himself for thinking of being so foolish – there needed to be more of a bond between them for him to even think of revealing himself to her so readily; he put his foolishness down to his own adrenaline and the intoxicating smell of blood that still hung thick in the air around them.

Later, when she had confessed to him that she was an accomplice to her father he had told her that he knew, then he had held her and told her she was a victim. It wasn't a complete lie – she was no monster, but she wasn't a victim either. Nevertheless, it placated her for a time and she seemed comforted by his words. A true comfort, he mused, was the last thing that he thought he would be considered. Was he to be Abigail Hobbs' security blanket or would she develop further and become something of an equal to him? She certainly had potential, but there was something else about her, some other part of her that he couldn't access from afar. He needed to be closer to her to unpick the last of the locks, and to answer the mounting questions he had scribbled in the journal.

Perhaps, the Good Doctor considered, this was a meeting of kindred spirits, and he would be a fool to waste such an interesting opportunity. All in good time; his questions could wait a little longer.


	2. Into The Night

Doctor Lecter knew from the knock on the door that it was Abigail on the other side. He closed the journal he had been perusing, rose from his seat, strode gracefully to the door and opened it with a flourish.

“Abigail.” He nodded to her and gestured for her to come in. “Climbing walls again?”

“I needed to get out,” she said, giving a grim smile as she stepped over the threshold into his office. The Doctor looked her up and down critically and raised a brow at her dirty shoes, his lips quirking slightly. “I went to the woods first,” she offered by way of explanation, “to think.”

“And now you are here,” he stated.

She made a beeline for her usual chair and sat down before responding to him. “I didn't want to go back to the hospital, but it's getting cold and dark outside and I-“ she faltered and considered her words, “I just need to be with somebody who understands.” She turned her face up to him, sad blue eyes meeting critical maroon ones.

“Abigail, you know you need to go back to the hospital,” he told her firmly. “You need to be there a little longer, until Doctor Bloom is convinced that you are not too adversely affected by your ordeal.”

“But I can't sleep there; I get nightmares all the time.” Her eyes implored him to relent and allow her to stay for a little while longer.

“Maybe you should speak to Doctor Bloom about them – it could be good for you.”

“You know I can't do that,” she shot back petulantly.

“Do I?” His expression darkened at her attitude as he left the question hanging, knowing she wouldn't answer. He was right; she tore her gaze from his and looked at her hands, picking at her nails in an attempt at nonchalance. He gave an almost imperceptible sigh and pulled a chair close to her before seating himself; when she would not look up at him he gently placed thumb and forefinger around her chin and directed her gaze back to his – he could tell something was not right. “What is troubling you?” he asked in earnest, releasing her chin and returning his hand to the arm of his chair.

“I... didn't have this problem before,” she began carefully, “with the girls – you know.” He nodded at her to continue. “Since Nicholas, I don't know. In my nightmares I could deal with the girls, but when he turns up with them too... I can't take it, I don’t know how to handle him.” He remained quiet while she talked, but noted that she seemed more confused than upset. “How do you deal with it?” her question had taken him completely by surprise; he swallowed a couple of times while formulating a response – this was a conversation he wasn’t planning on having just yet.

“How do I deal with Nicholas Boyle's death? I did not kill him, I merely-“

“I'm not talking about Nicholas”, she cut him off, meeting his eyes once more; when he didn't respond immediately she elaborated, “I know. You're like me... I- I can feel it. It's why you're different.” Her statements separated by awkward pauses indicated to him that she was trying to figure him out as much as he was trying to unpick her. While he didn't have a response for her, she had answered one of his questions – she knew, she saw his darkness the same way he saw hers – and he would retreat to her room in his Palace later and divulge the answer to the journal. “Please,” she broke his reverie and reached for him with a trembling hand, “please don't make me go back yet.” Her eyes brimmed with tears which were, for once, real. He stood from his seat, took her hand and gestured that she should come with him; with a weak smile she rose and allowed him to lead her from the room.

Doctor Lecter walked Abigail from his office, through the waiting room and into the reception area where he relinquished his hold on her hand to set the alarm for the doors, once this had been taken care of he took her hand once more and led her from his office building into the chilly evening. He took her around the side of the building to the car park, now lit dimly by a few small security lights, and fished his key fob from his inside pocket and pressed one of the small buttons; the indicators of the last remaining car in the lot flashed twice and he heard Abigail's slight intake of breath at the sight of his custom Bentley. The Doctor smirked in amusement as he led her around to the passenger door and opened it for her, gesturing that she should get in; she sat carefully on the seat and held herself rigidly as though she might sully the interior by relaxing into its leather embrace. He closed her door and chuckled as he skirted around the front of the car and opened the driver's side door, depositing himself in the driver's seat and the key in the ignition in one fluid movement; he looked to her as he turned the key and saw that she had not relaxed at all.

"It doesn't bite, you know."

"What?" she responded, wide eyes meeting his mirthful ones.

"The seat." His teeth glinted in the fading overhead light as he chuckled at her discomfort. "Relax, Abigail."

"It's just so perfect," she replied in a small voice, though he was pleased to see her settle further back into the seat.

Quietly, the car purred out of the car park; he soon felt Abigail's eyes watching him as he watched the road they travelled on – she was most likely finding the sight of him doing something as everyday as driving somewhat bizarre. Chopin’s Nocturne filled the silence in the vehicle, its softness relaxing the Doctor; he stole a glance at his quiet companion and saw she had rested her head on the side of the seat and observed the changing scenery of their journey, fingertips idly tracing the stitching of her seat.  He had no doubt that her mind was formulating all manner of questions – ways in which she could reach inside him, examine his darkness and compare it to her own; little did she know he was attempting exactly the same with her.

He smoothly steered left and continued at a slower speed down the quiet road; the houses here were well apart from each other and the boundaries of his home were flanked by trees and fences – it afforded him all the privacy he needed for his darker pursuits, yet appeared a perfectly normal house for somebody of his salary and standing. He pulled the Bentley on to the driveway and pulled up to the garage door which he opened remotely; parked in the dark garage he heard Abigail’s breathing quicken slightly – was the girl afraid of the dark? Confined spaces? Or was it him? – he flicked the overhead lights on and took in her panicked expression and dilated pupils, and noted that she had pressed her back up against the door. This was new.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Abigail,” he offered by way of assurance, now sure that her panic was caused by a realisation of where she was and who she was alone with. She nodded in response to his statement and looked him in the eye as she had countless times before, though her breath still puffed out of her nose in shallow bouts. “Just breathe,” he encouraged, “and relax – I’m going to come around and open your door and then you can get inside.” She didn’t make a sound, just nodded her assent, but he was relieved to hear her attempting to even out her breathing – he couldn’t have her hyperventilating. He removed himself from the car and did exactly as he said he would, offering his hand to assist her exit from the car; she stood shakily, but seemed to be calming a little. Part of the Doctor drank in her distress and saved it for his own perusal in the future, but another part wished that she would be calm enough to engage in the conversation he was sure they would be having once inside his home.

Doctor Lecter led Abigail out of the darkness of the garage – locking the car and closing the garage door with key fob without so much as a glance behind himself – and with one arm wrapped around her shoulders he guided her to his front door. He took a moment to glance at her face and saw a small amount of amusement in her eyes – perhaps she expected his front door to resemble Rodin’s ‘Gates of Hell’ – before he opened the door and gestured for her to enter. Abigail stood, framed by the doorway, staring into the darkness of the hallway stretching out before her; the Doctor appreciated her shy silhouette and filed the image away for later before flicking the lightswitches and illuminating his home.

The pair maintained their silence as he led her through to the kitchen and deposited her on one of the barstools. She looked at him questioningly as he busied himself, opening cupboards and fetching tea-making utensils. He noticed her watching him and quirked his lips in a semi-smile. “I’m going to make you some chamomile tea, to help you to relax,” he explained gently as he flicked the kettle on to boil.

“No mushrooms, then?” she quipped quietly.

“No,” he chuckled softly, shaking his head, “no mushrooms for you today.” He continued preparing the tea, putting three spoonfuls of loose tea leaves into the glass teapot he had used previously. “Please, don’t keep your silence on my account; voice your thoughts,” he prompted while fetching two clear glass mugs and setting them on the countertop.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked timidly.

 “Of course you can, Abigail.”

“Any question?”

He paused for a moment, considering his words before he responded; “I have a feeling that we are beyond the point where I might set boundaries for what you might ask me.”

“I suppose so,” she agreed, knowing that if he had not wanted to answer her questions he would have turned the conversation back around on her by now. The kettle whistled and the Doctor poured the boiling water into the teapot before he replaced the lid and allowed the tea to steep for a few minutes. He observed Abigail glancing about the kitchen and worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, clearly considering how best to ask her question – he saved this image of the vulnerable Abigail for her room in his Palace, he would set it on the desk in a tasteful but plain frame. She stopped worrying her lip a couple of times and he thought she would speak but she did not, so he attended to the tea once more, setting a strainer over each mug and pouring chamomile tea for them both.

“You may ask me anything you like, Abigail,” he prompted, “you don’t need to worry about how best to say it, if that is what you’re worrying about.” He pushed the mug of tea across the countertop to where she sat and she wrapped her hands loosely around it, smiling her thanks at him. He leaned against the countertop on his elbows, forearms flush against the cool countertop, hands wrapped around his own mug, maroon eyes staring into the golden brew as he awaited her questions.

“I think it’s a conversation best kept for another day,” she vocalised, finally. It did nothing for the voice in the back of Doctor Lecter’s head that insisted that he press the matter, the part of him that wanted to climb inside her head and have a good poke around.

He brought his gaze up to her face and studied her for a moment, ascertaining that she truly did want to save the conversation and had not declined the opportunity out of misplaced worry. “If that is how you feel then that is what we will do,” he answered honestly.

He felt her eyes studying him then, could practically hear the cogs in her brain turning, preparing her next question. “Do you mind if I stay here?” she blurted. “Just for tonight... I mean, you look tired and I don’t really want to drag you out to take me back to the hospital – because you’d do that, I know you won’t let me walk back.”

The Doctor stared at her before smiling wanly. “I am indeed tired; it has been a trying day, and an... interesting evening.” He pushed himself away from the countertop, his mind made up; “If you will excuse me, I will call the hospital and see how agreeable they are to the idea.” He disappeared down out of the room and Abigail heard his murmured conversation with somebody from the hospital – she needed to know how he could bend people to his will so very smoothly. “I believe you’ll find the guest room comfortable enough,” his return snapped her out of her reverie, “are you ready to retire?” She nodded, slipped off of the barstool and deposited her empty mug in the sink before accepting his proffered hand.

Once again she was led through Doctor Lecter’s home, though this time she had more of a spring in her step – she marvelled at how everything had its own place and how perfect it all looked, nothing was ever out of place – up the carpeted stairs and to a closed door. He relinquished her hand to open the door and gestured for her to enter; her eyes eagerly took in every detail of the modest but no doubt expensive bedroom furniture, the four poster bed, the lush carpet and large rug covering most of the floor. The Doctor leaned into the room and flicked the lightswitch, bathing the room in a warm glow, making it seem all the more inviting to the young woman. With a genuine smile she toed off her shoes and set them aside before sinking her toes into the carpet and enjoying its plushness.

“The bathroom is across the hall,” he intoned, leaning against the doorframe and observing her delight at the room – it made him feel almost happy to have let her stay. “I will fetch you something to wear while you sleep.”

He lingered at the closed door for a moment longer than was necessary before retreating to his own bedroom at the other end of the hall to fetch a pair of black silk pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt for her. Upon his return he gently tapped his knuckles on the door, opening it halfway and slipping inside to hand her the neatly folded pile of sleepwear.

“Thank you for letting me stay, Doctor Lecter. I feel safe here,” she said gratefully, perched on the end of the bed.

“You are most welcome, Abigail. Good night.” He nodded to her and closed the guestroom door softly behind him before he padded back to the master suite, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

As he settled into his own bed, Doctor Lecter considered Abigail’s parting words. Amidst the whirl of events he found himself in with Will Graham, Jack Crawford and even Alana Bloom, the Good Doctor considered his time with Abigail to be outside of it all – despite those very events leading to their meeting – so he could understand how she could feel safe inside their bubble cut off from the rest of the world. Perhaps he would sketch the room he had built for her, and perhaps he would show it to her one day – so she could see how he sheltered her. He was quickly amassing a collection of memories and loose ends where Abigail Hobbs was concerned, and Hannibal could feel their story was only just beginning. The morning would bring a fresh conversation and answers and for now he would sleep, aware that his self-imposed charge slept soundly and without nightmares just down the hall.


	3. The Architect

Sunlight filtered through the gauze curtain, slithered its way across the bedclothes and illuminated the waking features of Hannibal Lecter; after a moment spent blinking his dark eyes against the blinding light he pulled the covers off of himself and rose from the bed, padding across the plush carpet to retrieve his robe and slippers before moving into the en suite to relieve himself. Once wide awake the Doctor left his crepuscular room and moved silently down the hallway to the guestroom door; he cracked the door ajar and saw that Abigail still slept, legs wound up in the sheets and dark hair splayed across the pillow. He allowed himself a small smile at her appearance before quietly closing the door and moving downstairs.

In the kitchen Hannibal set about making his morning coffee, setting the vacuum coffee maker on and fetching a glass mug and shining silver spoon from their places; he seated himself on one of the barstools and waited for the coffee maker to work its morning magic. As the machine whirred, the Doctor considered Abigail and her involvement with death; with Garrett-Jacob Hobbs she had no real control over the selection of the target – she was just the tool her father used to get to his victims, she was also his trigger. She would assist later of course, but she did not kill directly. Her only real kill had been Nicholas Boyle and she had done so more out of instinct than any sort of dark desire, despite how efficient her work with the knife was; however, Hannibal still felt something bubbling beneath the surface of the oftentimes timid young woman. He considered the question she had asked him at his office, how did he deal with killing? He supposed the reason he remained guilt-free was due to the criteria he used to select his victims and the control he wielded while disposing of them. Perhaps her question was so honestly posed because she knew absolutely nothing about his past deeds and likely never would, try as she might. As he rose from his seat and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee he wondered whether, in a future where he could reveal his true self to her, Abigail could understand and learn from his guiltlessness; taking a long appreciative sip of his coffee, the Good Doctor thought that yes, Abigail could and would learn from him – he would just have to ensure that she was in the right frame of mind before he could reveal his true self to her.

Hannibal took himself back upstairs with the intention of heading for his en suite to shower, however as he came to the guestroom door he heard the rustling of bedclothes and a loud yawn; smirking, he knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she called softly after a beat of silence.

He opened the door halfway and leaned in the doorframe. “Good morning,” he greeted with a small quirk of his lips.

“Morning,” she replied, voice laced with sleep.

“I trust you slept well?” She nodded at his question, “Good. No nightmares?”

“No nightmares,” she confirmed, “though no dreams either.” She considered her own response with a small frown creasing her brow before she met his eyes to ask her next question: “Do I have to go back yet?”

“It’s six thirty on a Saturday morning, Abigail,” he chuckled, “I don’t think they’ll be too concerned until this evening; they know where you are, after all.”

“I meant, don’t you have plans?”

“No plans, no parties. You have me all to yourself.” She brightened at his words, and he continued, “Perhaps we might continue our conversations, hmm?” At this she looked down at her lap and fussed once more with the skin around her nails, a sure sign that she was uncertain and lacked the confidence for such conversation so early in the morning; he decided to try a different tack. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please ,” she affirmed and smiled up at him.

“There’s a clean bathrobe in the wardrobe,” he gestured to the ornate wooden armoire and she rose from the large bed – pyjama bottoms rumpled, his large t-shirt hanging from her slight frame, and bed hair sticking out at every angle – and retrieved the grey bathrobe, tying the sash to keep it closed.

The pair descended to the kitchen and Doctor Lecter put the coffee maker on again.

“Are we going to have the conversation now?” Abigail queried as she seated herself on the barstool she had perched on the night before.

The Doctor chuckled, “I don’t think so. I, for one, plan on relaxing this morning; another cup of coffee, a long shower and a couple of hours reading newspapers is what I had in mind.”

“That sounds much better,” she agreed. They fell into a companionable silence, sipping their coffee and exchanging idle chit chat about some of the hospital staff – odd mannerisms and the like – while he enjoyed the light banter Hannibal ensured that, although Abigail did not like the hospital, she was still being treated reasonably. Then, out of the blue, she changed the topic. “Do you think Will might pose a threat to me... I mean, us?”

“No,” he responded, quietly confident in his judgement, “if he were to suspect either of us he wouldn’t want to believe it – he would lose us both if he found the truth.” At his words Abigail shot him a questioning look. “With me he has found a place to offload – I do not judge him for the way he thinks or feels, nor do I force advice on him,” he considered his words to be half-true; “and you, dear Abigail, are important to him because you remind him why he must win the battle with himself to keep his darker desires at bay... yet he keeps his distance because he doesn’t know how to feel about you.”

“What do you mean? Romantically?”

“No, no. While he still struggles with the knowledge that he killed your father, and while he knows that it was the right thing to do in terms of duty, he feels that his continued presence around you would be detrimental to you both – seeing you causes him to torture himself further over the fact that he pulled the trigger; add to this the knowledge of Nicholas Boyle’s death and his uncertainty over the whole situation...” the Doctor trailed off. “Will is not a well man; he is not emotionally stable, and perhaps it is better for you both to remain at a distance, at least for the time being.” Hannibal neglected to mention his feeling that Will was more bothered by the power he felt on killing Garrett-Jacob Hobbs than by the effect it had on Abigail, and that every time the troubled man saw her served as a constant reminder of the slippery slope he teetered atop.

“I feel sorry for him.”

“How so?” he questioned, brow raised at her admission.

“I’m only really affected by my father’s deeds and what I’ve done when I sleep; Will is affected twenty-four-seven,” she explained. “I don’t think I could cope with that.”

“I am confident he will find some resolution and peace eventually; Jack Crawford may have to give him up sooner rather than later.” At his words Abigail uttered a saddened sigh. Doctor Lecter observed as she traced first the rim of the glass mug and then the delicate handle with her fingertips, stroking the surface with such care as though it were made of something more precious and fragile. “Come,” he beckoned, “let’s get ourselves ready to face the day.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours later saw the Good Doctor ensconced in his favoured high-backed leather chair, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, broadsheet obscuring him from Abigail’s view as he read through the cryptic crossword clues, mentally answering each one. She was quietly reading a lifestyle supplement that had arrived with his morning papers, but he could feel the nagging questions she was holding in and it grated on him to the point he could not concentrate on 10-down. He was not expecting to entertain, and their circumstances made the situation both interesting and bizarre; he felt as lost as she, only he was better at concealing it. Abandoning the crossword, Doctor Lecter sat forward and set to folding the newspaper precisely before turning his body to face Abigail.

“I think now may be the time for us to have a discussion,” he announced. Her eyes snapped up from the magazine she had been feigning interest in, pupils dilating at the mention of the elephant in the room. Slowly, as if in a daze, she set the supplement aside and folded her hands in her lap, though it was quite obvious to him that she fought the urge to wring them. “Remind me of your question,” he prompted, settling back into his chair.

“How-“ she stopped herself at the sound of her shaky voice, took a breath and calmed herself before starting again. “How do you deal with death?”

“Death? I seem to recall your question being far more specific. ‘Death’ is an umbrella term.”

“Fine. Killing, then.”

He tutted at her phrasing and irritation; clearly a way of trying to avoid the main point. “Rephrase.”

Abigail heaved a sigh and her face belied her frustration. She took a moment to compose herself before speaking again. “How do you, personally, deal with the knowledge of killing; by that I mean those that you have killed... people.”

“Better.” He quirked his lips in amusement at her discomfort. “It’s relatively simple: Those that I have killed have been all too deserving of their respective ends. I assume no guilt, Abigail; much of what I have done has been out of necessity and survival.” He wouldn’t tell her the exact nature of the ‘necessity’, nor would he tell her of the enjoyment that came with the act of taking a life; partly because he knew she already knew the feeling, and he did not want to lay himself quite so open so early in the game. He had to tread carefully; while he had recognised the darkness in her she was also far less experienced and the Good Doctor did not need to scare her off or encourage the development of unhealthy and undesirable traits in her eager and impressionable mind.

Abigail did not respond immediately, and he watched as she sat staring at him – through him – as she processed his words; for a moment he thought he might not have been careful enough with her, but she soon snapped back to the moment and looked him directly in the eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, hands unfurling from the fists she had them clenched in and shoulders straightening from their hunched position as she exhaled a great breath into the room. Hannibal sensed a change in Abigail then – an acceptance of sorts – and though he was not entirely certain what it would spell for the future, he was sure enough that it would not be detrimental to him; his judgement had proven solid and he looked forward to seeing what she would do after their conversation, either way he knew she would have many more questions.

Later, after he took her back to the hospital, he would sit and draw Abigail; she would be standing before the writing desk in her room in his Palace, surrounded by light, holding a hunting knife in one hand and the journal he had kept there in the other... her face would appear serene but her eyes constantly searching out answers to questions she would not be ready to answer for a long time, yet she held his own questions in her hand. He would keep the drawing close to the top of his pile of sketches and return to it every so often to consider her position in the events surrounding them both; he would use this image of her to mark the embarkation on the next stage of her journey, he as her guide.


End file.
